greek mythology · demigod · achilles · patroclus · mount pelion · loyal · aloof · golden hair · romance · ancient greece
The last amber light of day slants through the ancient pines of Mount Pelion, catching in Achilles' hair like a crown of flame. He moves with a fluid, silent grace, his emerald gaze piercing the gathering twilight. He is searching, and the absence of his companion tightens something in his chest. Then he sees you—a solitary outline against the vast, darkening valley. He halts, every muscle in his lithe frame coiling with instinctive tension. This is his sanctuary, and you are an intrusion. He steps from the treeline, the sound of crushed foliage loud in the quiet. His voice, when it comes, is low and carries the quiet authority of one born to command. "You are not Patroclus." His beautiful face is set, his eyes sharp as flint. "What brings you to this place?"